


deflect

by tanyart



Series: tread lightly [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Antagonism, Character Study, M/M, Overwatch Era, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: He shows his anger in different ways that aren't your own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For parisa! The prompt was " _56: things you said in the spur of the moment_ ". She tricked me. SHE TRICKED ME.

McCree sputters.

“I’m not going to _shoot_ you!”

Genji rocks back on his heels, startled by McCree’s sudden vehemence.  His sword dangles at his side, hilt in a loose hold in his hand.  It’s too relaxed, too casual to be taken seriously.  McCree eyes it, looking offended, so Genji tightens his grip, putting the blade up in a defensive position.

“Why not?” Genji asks, bouncing on his toes.  His new armor is light and flexible. Angela has outdone herself again, and Genji feels energetic.  Reckless. He feels like doing something utterly terrible.

“I’m not going to shoot another agent,” McCree says.  His arms are folded over his chest, but Genji catches the way the fingers of his right hand scratch at the Blackwatch patch over his left shoulder.  It almost looks like he wants to claw it off. “Especially one from Overwatch.  We’ve got enough bad blood between the departments as it is.”

Genji frowns from behind his faceplate.  McCree is on his second day status post-mission, fresh with success and another tally to his long record of victories.  There is little for him to be upset about, and the shifting rift between Overwatch and Blackwatch isn’t anything new.

“It’s only training.  I want to show you my upgrades,” Genji insists, toeing around McCree.  His tone is amiable, but McCree isn’t fooled by the predatory circling.  “I can deflect much faster now.”

McCree turns with him, keeping his steady gaze on Genji.  His voice is also friendly, but there is a distinct edge to it.  “Angela will tan my hide if I put so much of a scratch on you.”

Genji tilts his head to the sound. It’s attractive in McCree, whose temper is an unknown quality to Genji.  Maybe he has a deathwish.  He’s been thinking a lot on it, though he is certain he doesn’t want to die.  Not by friendly fire, at any rate.  He switches tactics.

“What’s this?” Genji laughs, knowing how to put the right amount of lilt in his voice to catch McCree’s attention. He’s not oblivious, and he’s not blind to it.  Neither of them are.  “You sound so confident of your skills, and have so little regard for mine.”

Trying to goad McCree is dangerous, careful work. It’s not unlike prodding a bear with a stick.  McCree’s eyebrows rise up.  He arms fall to his side, one hand coming up to rest against his hip, near his revolver.  Genji smiles.

“You must know I have a healthy amount of respect for your skills,” McCree says, blinking.  Genji’s barbed comment slides off him like water on plastic.  “But that don’t mean I shouldn’t be doubting mine either.”

Genji’s chest goes tight at McCree’s earnest words.  Sometimes, he can’t stand it, McCree being a good man. A good man in a terrible, blood-soaked position.  They ought to have switched places, switched commanders and missions.  He bows his head in acknowledgement, but he’s got one more card up his proverbial sleeve, dirty as the wetwork of their profession.  

Genji lowers his sword, though the his casual flourish is as good as an taunt.

“I thought an agent of Blackwatch would have no problem firing his weapon,” he says, shrugging. “And with so little cause.”

McCree goes silent, and Genji misses it—the way McCree’s shoulders roll back, how his tense posture relaxes.  Genji misinterprets it completely for apathy.

“I heard you have a kill count to make an army weep,” he says, more impressed than accusing.  He doesn’t think. McCree isn’t a man of indifference.  He harbors convictions stronger and better than Genji’s own. The words come out all wrong.  Genji should have known.

And maybe it’s why McCree finally draws out his gun.

There are six bullets.  Genji’s sensors flare up, cybernetic agility slowing down the way he sees McCree’s finger pull the trigger.  McCree’s eyes are calm and cold, firing arm steady.  If there had been a flash of anger at all, Genji misses it.

McCree aims for his limbs first.  No killing shots, not even in his haste.  Genji distantly wonders if it’s a conscious decision on McCree’s part.  The first two bullets are for his arms, to stop his sword work. Genji deflects them easily.  

The next two are for his legs, to cripple and slow him down, if he chooses to run. Genji’s sword catches them, shots pinging off hard steel.

McCree’s gaze shifts by a fraction.  The fifth bullet is for Genji’s chest, near the smallest gap in his armor, the spot between the chest plates.  It doesn’t miss, but like it’s predecessors, it doesn’t hit its mark.

So perhaps it’s only natural that the last bullet is for Genji’s head.  Genji doesn’t even have the presence of mind to register his surprise.  His vision is enhanced, the world is slow, but his thoughts do not catch up with them until it’s too late.  

Some part of him makes an effort to glance at McCree’s face, to discern where his eyes are focusing, but McCree’s gaze is empty, the world null and void.

Empty, empty, empty.  McCree had him marked since the first bullet.

 _I asked for this_ , Genji thinks ironically. His grip on his sword is unwavering but his thoughts drag his blade and divides his focus between deflecting McCree’s shots and deflecting McCree’s blank stare—but it’s impossible to deflect something that isn’t there.  

The bullet ricochets off metal, but he forgets to turn the angle of the blade. Genji’s cybernetic enhancements make him hear every decibel of the bullet sliding against his sword, high pitched screeching almost unbearable.  His vision blinks on and off the moment the bullet hits his faceplate, cracking the left side of his visor.  Genji’s head turns from the force of it but the armor holds.

The left side of his vision is marred by a jagged slash but Genji straightens, double quick, in case McCree decides to reload.  He’s met with the sight of McCree holstering his gun, the creak of leather straps suddenly loud in the quiet training room.

McCree doesn’t even spare a glance at Genji.  He turns on his heel, walking away, bullet casings still rolling across the floor.  He had reloaded, some time in between the moment Genji had been hit and had looked back up.

The tip of Genji’s sword wavers.  Genji sheathes it, lest it gives his state of mind away.  He stares at McCree’s retreating back and catches how McCree’s scratches at the Blackwatch patch once more in absent habit.

Genji takes a step forward, about to call out, but the words stick to his throat.  Suddenly, he is afraid he has done something unforgivable. He knows a thing or two about forgiveness, and the lack thereof.  He thinks of the last bullet, the headshot that would have been a perfect kill.  

Genji becomes acutely aware the last killing shot is ingrained in McCree, and it isn’t something McCree is going to unlearn, so long as he wears that Blackwatch patch over his shoulder.

Genji doesn’t walk, he rushes forward.  He grabs McCree by the arm, some perverse part of him relieved when McCree looks down at him, incredulous.  It’s better than the cold, expressionless stare of dead eyes.

Genji breathes again.  It doesn’t do a sharpshooter any good to have shaky hands, so McCree doesn’t shake with anger.  He stills with it.

“Talk to me later when you’re less inclined to lash out,” McCree says before Genji can say anything.

“I won’t lash out.”

“Then talk to _me_ later when I’m less inclined to lash out,” McCree finishes, and waits for Genji to release him.  

Genji lets go of his arm but he still pushes.  He doesn’t know how to back down, not for past two lives he’s been granted.  “That was wrong of me.”

He expects another quip, typical of McCree, but McCree lets his words hang in the air, unanswered and empty.  It’s the worst response of them all, and Genji is left in the training room, door slamming shut between them.

* * *

Genji’s fireteam comes to retrieve McCree, weeks later.

McCree’s hair is matted with blood and dirt, Blackwatch uniform just as filthy.  Genji has never been on a rescue team—his specialty lies elsewhere, in attacking and quick aggressive work of busy frontlines, something for the news and media outlets.  

There are no cameras now, not with Blackwatch involved in this retrieval.  

McCree grabs Genji’s wrist, stepping onto the air carrier.  His revolver is still in his other hand, clenched tight.  He has no bullets left.  The other Blackwatch agents whisper, some of the Overwatch soldiers as well.  Commander Reyes declares the mission a success over the communication link.

McCree finds a seat, buckles up, and closes his eyes.  Genji sits next to him, his own armor pristine and without the stain of blood.  He touches McCree’s gun, grip closing over the barrel.  He is surprised when McCree lets go of it, gladly.

“Just for a moment,” McCree admits, quiet.  His index finger is curled against his thigh, as if he still holds the Peacekeeper.  

“Only for a moment,” Genji agrees, and cleans out the gun for him.


End file.
